


In Sickness and In Health

by LizaGreen



Series: Give me a kiss, Stab me in the Back [1]
Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: 1920s, 1920s slang, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alastor Backstory (Hazbin Hotel), Alastor Being a Jerk (Hazbin Hotel), Alastor is Bad at Feelings (Hazbin Hotel), Alastor is an Asshole, Alastor is in Hell for a Reason (Hazbin Hotel), Asexual Alastor (Hazbin Hotel), Asexual Character, Cannibalism, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Child Neglect, Christianity, Creole Alastor, Evelyn is an angel we shall all miss, Everyone is a Asshole, For the precious baby, Historical References, Human Alastor (Hazbin Hotel), Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Infant Death, Louisiana Voodoo, Manipulative Relationship, Miscarriage, Mother-Son Relationship, OC's - Freeform, Period-Typical Racism, Protective Alastor (Hazbin Hotel), RIP Alastor's mother, RIP Alastor's sanity, RIP Anna, Racism, Segregation, Sex Repulsed Alastor (Hazbin Hotel), This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, Touch-Averse Alastor (Hazbin Hotel), Unhealthy Relationships, Voodoo, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:15:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23382178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LizaGreen/pseuds/LizaGreen
Summary: He had finally recognised her: Roxanne Spencer, only daughter of the new pastor’s wife from a different marriage. They were in hot enough waters with the man, that drowning his adoptive daughter would be nothing but detrimental to himself and his mother. “What have you been doing?”“Running away,” she said blithely, plopping down next to him as he returned to the task at hand. “How’s a ‘gator food?”“Your mother never made you Seafood Gumbo?” he asked, yanking out the rest of the intestines. They could feed the bayou for all he cared, he didn't need them. The girl didn’t even gag.“Not with ‘gator.”“Bully for you,” he muttered, deciding that there was little else he would get out of this.“You never gave me your name,” the girl stated in a demanding tone. He eyed her warily.“You never told me why you were running away,” he pointed out.
Relationships: Alastor & Alastor's Mother (Hazbin Hotel), Alastor (Hazbin Hotel) & Original Character(s)
Series: Give me a kiss, Stab me in the Back [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1677907
Comments: 9
Kudos: 68





	1. First Meetings

**Author's Note:**

> A warning before we start: while I have tagged this story as including Underage, Rape/Non-Con and Graphic Depictions of Violence, this is only at most referenced and never explicitly stated what. If, however, these things may cause triggers in you, please do not read. Since this is about the human history of the Radio Demon, it is not going to be a happy story and will not depict (for the majority) healthy relationships.
> 
> Furthermore, I have tried to be as respectful as I can to the different cultures of New Orleans, but I am neither a citizen of the city or America. I have tried to research this as much as I can, but will apologise now for any historical inaccuracy, inconsistencies or inaccuracy of the portrayal of Louisiana Voodoo within this story. I am also not a deep practitioner of Christianity and all opinions expressed by the characters are their opinions alone and not mine. Once again, if you may find this triggering, do not read. The racism is more explicit than the abuse.
> 
> Warnings aside, I hope you enjoy this story as much as you can! I admit this is not fully what I think Alastor's backstory is, and all credit for the creation of Alastor goes to Vivziepop!

Alastor had first met Roxanne Spencer in the middle of the bayou, halfway through (illegally) dissecting an alligator for meat. Up popped a small head from the reeds, completely filthy from head to toe in thick mud. It was 1913 and war was brewing on the horizon between the European states. 

“Hello,” the girl said, dripping mud all over the edible parts of the alligator that he had so painstakingly placed to one side. “What are you doing?” Alastor blinked at her, pondering the thought of drowning her, if only to stop her from blabbing. There was also something oddly familiar about her. 

“Getting food,” he eventually answered, deciding against it. He had finally recognised her: Roxanne Spencer, only daughter of the new pastor’s wife from a different marriage. They were in hot enough waters with the man, that drowning his adoptive daughter would be nothing but detrimental to himself and his mother. “What have you been doing?” 

“Running away,” she said blithely, plopping down next to him as he returned to the task at hand. “How’s a ‘gator food?” 

“Your mother never made you Seafood Gumbo?” he asked, yanking out the rest of the intestines. They could feed the bayou for all he cared, he didn't need them. The girl didn’t even gag. 

“Not with ‘gator.” 

“Bully for you,” he muttered, deciding that there was little else he would get out of this. 

“You never gave me your name,” the girl stated in a demanding tone. He eyed her warily. 

“You never told me why you were running away,” he pointed out. She huffed. 

“I don’t like my new papa. He wanted me to do _things_ for him, things that involved his trousers. So, I decided to run away.” Alastor tilted his head to the side. The pastor was asking for _that_? He shuddered internally. 

“Well, I have enough for three here,” he offered tentatively. “I’ll give you some if you go home.” No need for the pastor to decide to blame _him_ for the girl’s disappearance. Roxanne wrinkled her nose up. 

“Do I _have_ to go home?” she asked but rose anyway. 

“Yes.” She frowned, watching as he gathered up the meat in the prepared cloth and stored it in the waiting knapsack. 

“You still haven’t given me your name,” she pouted. “Mama says it’s rude to keep a lady waiting.” 

“You’re a very small lady,” he pointed out, bending over slightly so she could take his elbow. “It’s Alastor. Alastor LeRoux.” 

“Like the voodoo lady from town?” Roxanne asked. Alastor resisted the urge to grind his teeth. 

“Yes. Your point?” She shrugged as they made their way back towards his boat. 

“Nothing. Mama says it’s the work of the devil, but I think it’s interesting. T’aint hurt nobody neither and my friend Jessie says she got her fortune told in a voodoo parlour. Says she’s going to marry a handsome soldier and have pretty babies.” Alastor wrinkled his nose. 

“How pleasant for her,” he noted lightly. Honestly, he had never felt the appeal of procreation that the other boys his age did. Then again, the other boys his age liked to tease him for caring so much for his mother, for the darker tone of his skin and the length of his hair. The pastor usually gave him dirty looks and told him that he was no woman, he ought to cut it. Alastor had glared back as he flipped the shop’s sign to ‘closed’. 

“I don’t get it. Jessie has a baby sister and it’s _loud_. I can’t imagine having one around and _enjoying_ it,” she continued to prattle on. “But I want to visit the parlour too. Mama won’t let me though, makes me avert my eyes even passing them. Don’t know why, _looking_ never hurt nobody. And the Bible says we should all love our neighbours, but Mama disagrees.” 

“What does your Mama think of the favours from her husband?” he interrupted. He already knew the town’s views towards them. Roxanne sighed, flopping down and causing the boat to rock. 

“I didn’t say nothing. Papa swore me to secrecy, even though I said I didn’t like it. Well, most of it.” She seemed to think that through a while, watching the water in blessed silence. “Is it bad, if I enjoyed some of it?” she asked after a while. Alastor shrugged. 

“Who’s to say why we enjoy anything?” he commented. Roxanne blinked, frowning. 

“What’s that mean?” 

“Nothing,” Alastor sighed, deciding that he wasn’t going to get too much intellectual conversation from a ten-year-old. “Just thinking out loud.” 

“Hmm,” she hummed. “I ran away from Mama too,” she suddenly blurted out. “She wants me to get married and have babies too. But I don’t want babies and I don’t want to get married to any smelly boys.” 

“Excuse you,” he asked raising an eyebrow and pausing in rowing. She flushed. 

“I didn’t mean _you,_ ” she insisted, as if only just realising who she was speaking to. “I meant the boys at Church. They’re all boring and smelly and I saw George picking his nose in the middle of service. I think he put it in the Bible, so I told Mama we were never sitting over there. She gave me the belt when I got home for being rude.” 

“My Ma has never used the belt,” Alastor noted. “Curious that those who do the work of the devil don’t beat their children.” Roxanne blinked, then shrugged. 

“I didn’t say Mama was right. But I still don’t wanna go back home.” 

“And I don’t want the police in our house,” Alastor pointed out, picking up the oars once again. “But here we are.” Roxanne sighed but stayed silent for the rest of the way. Eventually, she fell asleep and he had to rouse her when they reached home. 

If he took her home later than intended, well that was his business. 

* * *

They met rather regularly after that. Roxanne was often away from her parents, hiding in whatever nooks and crannies she could, screeching when they found her like a banshee and fighting the whole way home. Her mother, Margaret Spencer, would often spit at him, shouting how he had infected her daughter with the devil if she found her anywhere near him. Alastor said nothing, remembering his promise to his mother. It was a test of his patience, but no more than usual. 

It was two years after their first meeting that she eventually made her way to the shop, stepping inside under the cover of her large sunhat and immediately ducking behind the counter. 

“She’s not following me no more is she?” Roxanne whispered from her place next to his knee. He gave her an unimpressed look, before glancing up at the windows. 

“No.” She relaxed, sitting herself down heavily, skirt riding up far more than was decent. “Cover yourself,” he snapped. She flashed him a cheeky grin. 

“You sure? I know all young men like-” 

“Cover yourself up, _now_ ,” he hissed. She yanked the skirt down with more force than necessary. “What’re you lamming off from this time?” 

“Mama wants me to visit George,” she said, slumping in a most unladylike manner, dark hair flopping over one shoulder. He had noticed she was rather more dressed up than usual. 

“The one that picks his nose in Church?” Alastor asked, curling his lip in disgust. 

“Yeah. He still does that too, and we’re not even children anymore!” She threw her hands up in disgust, brushing against his thigh. He shifted away with a flinch. Roxanne barely noticed, too wrapped up in her little rant. “He’s gross, and his Papa is friends with Papa, comes to all his parties after Church.” She finally noticed his discomfort with her closeness and rolled her eyes. “Oh, stop being such a bluenose, Alastor. I know you’re just as blue-blooded as them.” 

“They can keep their proclivities to themselves,” he snapped. “And you can stop comparing me to them, thank you very much.” She squinted up at him. The sound of their voices had summoned his mother, however. 

“Roxanne, my darling. What on earth are you doing on the floor?” Evelyn LeRoux asked, one hand on her cane, the other on the banister. Alastor jumped to his feet, kicking the stool aside. 

“I’m in hiding,” she said firmly, ignoring his hand to help her up. Evelyn glanced towards the door, noting the curious eyes peering in. While Margaret was not outside, others had seen a pretty white girl run into the voodoo shop, alone. No doubt they were wondering what he was doing to her, the nosey bastards. Alastor tensed his jaw shut, keeping the anger right there behind his teeth. 

“Now, now, silly girl, let poor Alastor be a gentleman and help you up. I’ll give you a tour of our wares if you like,” Evelyn stated. Alastor pursed his lips, eyeing the shaking hand on the cane. 

“No need, mother,” he insisted. “I’ll do it for our gracious customer.” Evelyn waved him away. 

“Oh pish, posh. I’m quite capable of showing the dear girl around.” Roxanne finally took his hand, jumping to her feet practically by climbing _him_. He disentangled himself as quickly as he could, shuddering. 

“Hands to _yourself_ ,” he hissed. As usual, she ignored him. 

“Can’t I get a reading instead?” she asked, not even bothering to look around. Evelyn blinked and shook her head. 

“That’s not the kind of service we offer here, girl. I offer advice, teachings of voodoo and wares for practice. Sometimes I’ll speak with the restless spirits in a person’s house. I don’t offer readings of the future, and any voodoo practitioner that tells you they can is a charlatan,” Evelyn noted with a sniff. 

“Oh,” she drooped, following behind his mother as she explained the various different wares they had on offer. She did take an interest in the different alters and the offerings left. 

“What’s this?” Roxanne asked, pointing towards the alter underneath the painting of Marie Laveau. Alastor tuned out the explanation, glancing towards the shop window. One particular young man had hurried off through the crowd, no doubt having noticed exactly _who_ was in the voodoo shop. It wouldn’t be long before the pastor or his wife descended upon them. He wasn’t alone in noticing this either. 

“I believe that is enough for today, my dear,” Evelyn noted, almost cheerfully. “We wouldn’t be wanting your mother to think we kidnapped you here all day.” Roxanne pouted but allowed Alastor to take her by the arm, already reaching for his overcoat and hat. 

“I’ll be back soon, Ma,” he stated. Evelyn nodded and waved. 

“You see she gets home safe and sound,” she instructed. “And you let your Mama know that you are welcome back anytime if you would like to learn more!” Roxanne nodded, despite them all knowing that Margaret would rather die than see her daughter willingly set foot in the shop again. 

No doubt, the exact reason why Roxanne would be back. 

Alastor knew the best way back to the pastor’s house, out on the drained lands where many outsiders had moved in. There were the backstreets, which would be quickest, the quiet little alleys where many of his own neighbours offered wares but where the likes of Roxanne’s family would never be seen and the way they went, the obvious larger roads and streets. No doubt, Roxanne would have loved the other ways, but Alastor wasn’t willing a mob to chase him down again. 

“Your Ma seemed better today,” Roxanne commented, the proper distance away out here in the streets. Alastor preferred it that way. 

“Yes, she has been,” he agreed. “The Doctor came by yesterday, said she needs more exercise to keep her strength up.” Roxanne frowned. 

“How’d you afford a Doctor?” she asked. He gave no reply, glaring right back at the pair of men at the newspaper stand, who looked affronted by a sixteen-year-old boy escorting a twelve-year-old lady home. Apparently, class was dead to them. Or perhaps, they were more horrified that a Creole boy from the wrong end of town was the one doing the escorting. Roxanne spotted them and poked her tongue out at them. “Oh, ignore them Alastor. They’re just out of towners' here for Mardi Gras.” 

“I doubt they even know what Mardi Gras is,” he muttered, turning away. He supposed that was one good thing about Roxanne: she had no care for the colour of people’s skin. If anything, if her mother hated it, she made it her mission to learn all she could about it. Except for her step-father's proclivities. Those she kept to herself.

“Well, that’s their problem,” she sniffed. “I can’t wait, personally. Best place to lose Mama and get out and about!” Alastor rolled his eyes, catching a glance of the headline of the paper. 

“War’s not going well,” he noted. Not too surprising really: the war currently fought in France had come to a grinding stalemate for a good few months now, stuck in the trenches up and down the borders of Germany and France. Roxanne shrugged. 

“What do we care?” she asked with a shrug. “We aren’t even part of it.” 

“A soldier’s pay would be better than that of a shop keeper’s,” he pointed out. “Enough to pay for a Doctor whenever Ma needs one.” Roxanne blinked, flushing slightly in embarrassment. Sometimes she forgot that her friend was not as well off as she. 

“You know you can always ask for help,” she said carefully. “I don’t have nothing to spend my allowance on other than pretty trinkets. And I get enough of those from George for free.” 

“No,” he said, not even deigning that with a thought. “I take it your Ma is insistent you will marry him then?” 

“When I’m old enough.” Roxanne was frowning again, the edges of her mouth puckering in distaste. “I hate him. I’d much rather marry you than anyone else.” Alastor blinked, surprised. 

“Excuse you?” He had no such plans for getting married. It would only hurt any plans to be in the army, any plans to make the money they so desperately needed. Roxanne blushed just as deeply as he did. 

“I... er... Forget I said it,” she muttered. “I know you don’t have any interest.” She was using the hat as a shield again. Alastor just stared at her a moment. 

“What on earth would make you want to marry _me_ for anyhow? It’s absurd!” She, who lived in a large house and wanted for nothing. What did he have to offer that the affluent George Humphries didn’t? 

He didn’t even care for the acts a husband and wife were to partake in! 

“It doesn’t matter,” she sniffed, turning away. Alastor narrowed his eyes, grabbing her arm roughly. 

“You just want to do it to annoy your mother,” he hissed. The nonchalant shrug was almost too much. “Marry your rich suitor,” he spat, pushing her away. “And stop annoying the likes of me, if that’s all it’s for!” 

“Roxanne Maria Spencer!” came a shriek from down the street. Alastor ducked into the nearest alleyway, seething, leaving her to her mother’s rage. 

He didn’t see her for a week. He did, however, receive a pretty red rose in an ornate vase, left on the doorstep of the parlour for his seventeenth birthday. He placed it on his mother’s rickety bedside table and burnt the accompanying letter without reading it. 

* * *

Tricking the registrar of his age was incredibly easy. Technically, he was two years too young to be drafted under the new laws, but his mother would be glad of the relief of the burden, paying only for one instead of two. The extra income would be a welcome boon as well. The army wasn’t particularly bothered, needing to meet their quotas for the President’s new military efforts and they didn’t particularly care for the colour of the draftees’ skin either. 

Segregation was just another fact of life right now. 

Alastor hadn’t ever really known any different. He had been born just as they were draining canals for the new houses, at the end of an era that no one knew was coming. His mother could remember the height of voodoo under Marie Laveau, recounting how she was respected by those in all walks of life, no matter whether they be white, black or mixed. His father had been a French Immigrant, moving into the infamous French Quarters when they met. The least said about the man, the better. Alastor didn’t much care for him either way. 

The influx of new people, mostly white families from the deeply religious South, into the city caused an upheaval which rocked New Orleans and the practitioners of voodoo. Despite the influences of Catholicism in Louisiana Voodoo, it was looked down on by horrified pastors, priests and clergymen who had recently moved in. They took no time to educate themselves, did not care for the respect they had garnered throughout the city. Instead, they appointed a new governor and cheered the tightening of the Jim Crow laws throughout New Orleans. 

Alastor hated them all. 

Roxanne came to see him off. Their relationship had been strained for the last couple of years, the topic of marriage staying dead. She still strained under the pressure from her mother, still wanted to leave the overbearing presence of the pastor, but stopped using the shop as a front. She had learnt her lesson well when her intended had thrown stones through the windows. Alastor had bore her presence as they taped up what was left and collected broken glass off the side-walk. What had been a funny gag for the man was a massive financial setback for them. If Alastor had spent more hours hunting in the bayou, well, who could say for sure? And if sacks of rice mysteriously appeared at their door, he didn’t question it. 

She knew when things were her fault, and when to pick her battles. 

“You’ll write won’t you?” she asked quietly, fiddling with his lapels. He resisted the urge to slap her hands away. Touch by strangers was a thing he was just going to have to get used to, by the looks of the boisterous other recruits. 

“Of course. Not going to see off your beau?” he asked tightly. She glanced towards the new Sergeant Humphries, laughing and roughhousing with his new friends. He sneered in their direction. Apparently, the moment he turned eighteen, he, too, had started appearing at father’s parties. 

“No,” she said stiffly. Then, almost shyly, she tied something around his wrist. He blinked, twitching away from her, startled. “Stand still!” she snapped, finishing up. It was a small scrap of fabric, in a brilliant red. “I know it clashes terribly with that uniform,” she said, “but it’s for luck. They’ll be sending you to the trenches.” He blinked, a little taken aback. 

“What about George?” he asked, curious. She shrugged. 

“I’d rather he returned in a coffin.” 

“That could be arranged,” he murmured, raising an eyebrow. She raised one back, before patting him on the shoulder. 

“I’ll want my luck back when you return,” she said in lieu of an answer. “And I’ll make sure Ms LeRoux is well looked after while you’re away.” He was surprised by the tears in her eyes. 

“Thank you,” was all he said, stiff and awkward. She reached up and gave him a soft kiss on the cheek. He tasted bile, leaning away, shoving down _other_ memories. 

“That bit of luck you can keep.” Ah, now he understood. She was setting up something else. He narrowed his eyes at her but she backed away now, heading towards her intended who was watching them closely now, scowling. _So, that’s how it is,_ he thought without mirth. _Well, if that is so..._ George Humphries flinched back at the wide smile he sent his way, humming a short jazz tune. 

This might actually be entertaining after all. 

* * *

Margaret Spencer threw a large party for the return of all New Orleans’ veterans from the war. The woman had wept with the Humphries' the night that George’s body (or what was left it) had been returned, but had agreed that the rest of the town’s heroes ought to be celebrated. Alastor had returned to an elated mother and a surprising invitation to the garden party. 

“It would be rude to turn it down,” Evelyn insisted, despite her persistent cough. “The Doctor came by last week and told me to rest, but that shouldn’t stop you going out and having your fun. I won’t hear a no from you either, young man!” She grinned and tapped the red fabric still tied about his wrist. “There’s a special someone who’s also been waiting for you.” 

Alastor’s best clothes were still his parade garb, so he opted for that for the party. He ignored the stares he garnered as he stepped inside the Spencer household for the first time in his life. He was greeted by an enthusiastic puff of black curls in a bone-crushing hug. 

“You haven’t written for a week!” Roxanne gasped, the crocodile tears making a return. “I thought... I thought you might be gone, like poor George!” 

“Of course not,” Alastor huffed, dropping her at the first opportunity. “There wasn’t much point when my own ship would arrive before the mail.” She gave him a smile and tugged him further inside the house. 

“Well, come on! Mama set up all these wonderful cakes you simply must try, and I even got her to order beignets!” He allowed her to drag him away, knowing wandering too far alone was just asking for trouble. Margaret Spencer looked as thrilled to see him as ever. 

“I see you managed to escape the Germans,” she sniffed from behind her tea. 

“Yes Ma’am,” he said politely. Her daughter was still clinging to his arm. 

“It should have been you,” Margaret hissed. “It should have been you under that bomb, not poor George.” Alastor gave her a polite smile. George Humphries had very much tried to get him under the bomb. If the man had ended up with a bullet in the head for his trouble, it would have served him right. The woman shuddered and stalked away, off to congratulate one of George’s friends, no longer grinning. Occasionally he still shook, looking for the bombs. _Shell shock_ the doctors had called it. Alastor himself had been briefly blinded at one point by mustard gas, laid up next to the man. It had been fun to bash the metal legs of the bed with the desk lamp to see him jump as he recovered.

“Your mother is as pleasant as always,” he noted, taking a sip of whatever drink it was that Roxanne had shoved into his hands. Something fruity. 

“Of course,” Roxanne stated. “Oh, you kept it!” She was looking at his wrist. He gently tugged the bow undone, holding it out with a flourish. 

“As promised, your luck returned!” he said. She took it with oddly hesitant hands. 

“I thought you would have gotten rid of it,” she murmured quietly. 

“Whatever for? George was insistent on taking it, since he had no favour of his own,” Alastor said with a grin. The drink must have been alcoholic, it made him feel slightly giddy. He set it aside. Roxanne gave him a smile and then threw her arms around him in an overly friendly gesture once more. A year of back-slaps, unexpected tackles from behind and supposedly ‘friendly’ teasing had rid him of the surprised flinches of his youth. The kiss to the cheek still made his stomach churn, but he hid it with a grin. 

“Keep it,” she insisted. “A reminder of our profitable business.” 

“I didn’t do it for you,” he stated. “Poor Georgie just didn’t understand the phrase ‘every man for himself’.” She shrugged. 

“Keep it anyway. I think red rather suits you.” 

“Oh, Roxie, is this the dashing young man you were telling me about?” squealed a voice behind them. Alastor raised an eyebrow, turning to face the young woman who appeared behind them. Soft blonde locks, crystal blue eyes, dressed in a fashionable blue cocktail dress and matching suede shoes. The girl, eyed him up and down in the way a salesman eyed his merchandise. “He is a looker, sure you don’t want to share?” she giggled. The stench of alcohol was strong on her breath. He leaned back, away from her ever so slightly. 

“Yes, it is. Alastor, this is my best friend Jessica Maurice. Jessie, this is Alastor LeRoux,” Roxanne introduced them, the perfect little lady her mother tried so hard to make her. He took the proffered hand and kissed it gently. 

“A pleasure to meet you,” he intoned softly. The girl blushed beet red, suddenly a fumbling mess. She stuttered something unintelligible, while Roxanne’s grip tightened on his arm. 

“I’m so happy you two have met now,” Roxanne stated in strained joy, “Alastor will be looking for work now and I know he just adores jazz! Oh, we have a piano indoors, you should play for us!” Jessie stumbled out an agreement, nodding vigorously. 

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly,” Alastor denied, humble. “My skills are nowhere near the level of the Maurice Quartet!” He had known for a long time exactly who ‘ dear Jessie’s parents were. Albert Maurice owned the local Jazz club, had done for years, and was one of the few establishments that held little care for the Segregation laws. He was rather surprised that Margaret had allowed her daughter to mingle with such a character. 

“I think you could,” Roxanne murmured, fluttering her eyelashes demurely. “Surely you could just play one little song for us?” She wanted something from this, but he wasn’t sure what. Jessie just nodded dumbly, following along with her friend. How a kiss on the hand had struck the girl to silence, Alastor would never know. 

“One song,” he agreed, praying he wouldn’t live to regret this. 

If only he had known what would come of meeting little Jessie Maurice. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact, there were actually black Americans in the US Army when they joined the war in 1917, but were once again segregated and only formed two regiments. So, not like Captain America, which even though occurs during WW2, was also historically inaccurate. I imagine Alastor to be somewhere in his thirties, so he would most definitely have been alive and remembered WWI, whether he fought in it or not. This just fit part of where I am going with this. I also note that the age of draft in America was between 21 and 30 in 1917 and was only lowered to 18 in September 1918. 
> 
> I also realised that if Alastor died in 1933, it is possible that Angel Dust could have heard of his exploits in life, considering he dies in 1947. Admittedly, this would depend on how widespread Alastor's murders were and how old Angel Dust was at age of death. Even if he were only 20, he would still have been born in 1927, therefore while unlikely to have crossed paths, he still should have been old enough to remember any potential news broadcasts about his killings, thin as this theory is. 
> 
> That aside, this will be at most, three parts long. I urge you once more, because it will only get darker from here on out, if any of this is or may become a potential trigger to you, please do not read. The next part is going to get real dark and I will be marking the section out with bold markers which, while irritating because they take you out of the story, I will be including to mark the worst parts that will be the most explicit out of them all. I am trying to make this as realistic as possible, using all the information we have about the character, focusing on the parts that I find most interesting (such as the fact that Alastor apparently has a moral code against hurting children: what does this mean for his relationship with Charlie, someone born in hell? His relationship with Niffty, who is portrayed with a childlike personality? Why does he have this code in the first place?) and what his life may have been like before taking the long trip down to Hell.
> 
> Also quick shout out to SilentAvera's fic 'Mercy Me' which was what really got the ball rolling with this fic, and her chapter which actually includes Marie Laveau where she pretty much lectures Alastor to do one good thing with his second life. It's good you should go read it!


	2. Do you, Alastor LeRoux, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter includes more mentions of child abuse, both Alastor and Roxanne, implied/referenced rape of a minor, implied murder and cannibalism. If any of this may trigger you, please do not read. The worst moment for referenced rape has been highlighted.
> 
> Other warnings include: neglect of a newborn, mild body horror and racism in the form of Margaret Spencer. 
> 
> I'd say enjoy, but that might be the wrong adjective!

The arrival of Roxanne to the Maurice Jazz Club was rather muted all things considered. Usually her entrance anywhere was dramatic, her friends surrounding her in a loud gaggle, giggling about the handsome men they would soon be dancing with. Tonight, however, she was quiet, alone. From the piano, Alastor couldn’t help but notice the dark head of hair make its way to the nearest seat. 

His set came to an end and he waved away the demand for an encore. Something was going on, he could feel it. 

Roxanne was sat, oddly demure and subdued, barely noticing his presence. He cleared his throat. 

“What has gotten into you this fine evening?” he asked, curious despite himself. Since the end of the war and the garden party, she had helped him gain extra funds through Albert Maurice, who had been more than pleased to hire a new pianist after the previous one had tried running off with his very underage daughter. The pay was good for what it was, although he knew he was paid far less than some of the other players and performers. 

“Nothing,” she said stubbornly. “Just not feeling in a partying mood.” He highly doubted that. 

“What are you doing here then?” She stiffened, glancing about. 

“You haven’t seen Jessie, have you?” she asked. Alastor frowned. 

“No.” Jessie was an annoyance and one he would rather do without. Between running the shop during the daylight hours and performing in the evenings, he had little and less time for the girl’s advances. All money went straight into the Doctor’s hands as his mother spent much and more of her time in bed now. 

“Oh. Good.” She perked up at that. “Want to dance?” 

“No,” he answered shortly. He was tired of playing these games with her. 

“Oh, don’t be a spoilsport. Come on, one dance,” she coaxed, fluttering her lashes. He frowned. 

“One dance,” he agreed. “I still have the shop to run in the morning.” She huffed, rolling her eyes but grabbed his arm and dragged him onto the dance floor. 

“Liven up, Al,” she said, hands wandering inappropriately. He tugged them back up to their proper places. “I know you love this one.” That he did, he far preferred the upbeat tones of jazz than the dolcet waltzes that Margaret insisted upon in her parties. Since his return as a war hero, she had been rather sour that he was now included in their little social circles, the only one to appear after Church on Sundays and not partake in the pastor’s ‘entertainment’. If he stole Roxanne away from that occasionally, who was to say? Honestly, it was more like she stole him away in one of her many futile attempts to coax him into the ‘festivities’. 

He refused every time. 

This was no different. They swayed to the music, her hands attempting to wander, he placing them back. Sometimes she would lean in for a kiss, he would dip her down and up again as if it were choreographed. Each attempt frustrated her more and it was somewhat entertaining. He grinned at her frowns. 

“I believe your mother would much rather we leave room for Jesus,” he pointed out as she wandered back into his personal space, he stepping back. She pouted. 

“But that’s not the fashion anymore.” 

“Roxie? Al? Oh, there you two are!” It was the annoying voice of her little friend and Roxanne tensed up once again, suddenly stiff and uncomfortable. She sent Jessie a strained smile as the girl navigated her way through the dancers. 

“Hello, Jessie. I wasn’t expecting you tonight!” she squealed, as if enthusiastic. Alastor narrowed his eyes. 

“Oh, I wasn’t going to come, but Mama left the gathering early. You might want to head home though- your parents were getting into quite the row,” Jessie said, eyes concerned. “It wasn’t pretty.” He and Roxanne shared a quick glance. For the pastor and his wife to get into such an argument in public was unheard of. They usually left such things in private, sharing their separate rooms. 

“Oh, thank you for telling me,” Roxanne murmured. “Would you be able to escort me home, Al? I seem to have misplaced my chaperone.” Considering that she had arrived alone, he rather suspected the chaperone was non-existant. 

“Of course,” he acquiesced. “Are you in need of a chaperone Miss Maurice?” Roxanne twitched, her grip tightening on his arm. Jessie giggled, waving them off. 

“Oh, no, I’m staying with Papa until the end of the show now. But I thank you for the offer,” she simpered. She paused, then glanced up from between her lashes demurely. “Actually, Papa did wish to speak with you about a new business proposition. And... so would I, in the morning if it isn’t too much trouble?” He didn’t flinch as the blood flow in his right arm was cut off. He’d suffered far worse before. 

“It would be a pleasure to meet with you and your family tomorrow. Perhaps for lunch though? I’m afraid I have business to attend to in the morning,” he agreed. There was inventory and new stock arriving in the morning, plus he would need to check in with his mother. 

Roxanne shot him a poisonous look the moment they left the club. 

“You shouldn’t have done that,” she spat, irritated. If there was one thing that Roxanne Spencer was, it was possessive. “She wants to ask you to marry her you know.” 

“What?” He was so surprised he forgot the usual gentlemanly manner his mother had drilled into him over the years. Roxanne rolled her eyes, not even looking at him. 

“I told you. She got a reading done years ago telling her she would marry a soldier and have lots of babies. You fought in the war, ergo...” Alastor wrinkled his nose in disgust. 

“Absolutely not,” he stated, adamant. “There are plenty of other veterans. Why doesn’t she chase them down?” 

“Because they’re not, and I quote, ‘darling, precious, handsome Alastor LeRoux who cares so much for his mother, that once she passes away all that attention will be mine’.” The grin did not fall, despite his grip on her getting tighter. 

“I see,” he hissed. “And is this an actual quote, or you paraphrasing?” Roxanne gave him a coy look. 

“What do you think?” she asked. “Since when have I ever lied to you?” 

“Since the day we met,” he pointed out, tugging her to a stop to avoid the automobile chugging down the road. “Miss I-didn't-like-the-things-Papa-did-to-me.” 

“I didn’t. Still don’t, from Papa.” 

“But not from others,” he continued, as if she had barely spoken. “And don’t think I don’t know what you’ve been doing with this job, the club, Miss Maurice, all of it. Do you think jealousy is the thing that will get me to agree to marry you?” 

“It’s beneficial for us both,” she said with a huff. Over the past year, they had both dropped the pretence about what it was she wanted from him. A way out of her mother’s clutches for a start, a new life and a romanticised idyll about what living closer to the poverty line was like. Alastor disabused her of the notion rather quick, but she had little care for the things he did to ensure he and his mother’s survival. “I don’t understand what you have against it.” 

“You think I want to be known as the man who allows his wife to sleep around?” he spat. “Some of us do not have wealthy parents or the colour of our skin able to let us get away with things.” She shrugged, giving nothing away. 

“It would open doors for you. And I know how to be discreet,” she argued. 

“No,” he said firmly. “Nothing on this earth would get me to marry you, not your friend, nor anyone else for that matter.” 

“Nothing?” she asked, frowning. 

“Nothing.” That was the end to it. Or at least, so he thought. 

* * *

**(HEAVILY IMPLIED RAPE)**

He wasn’t due to play the club the next night, and decided to spend the evening with his mother, dabbing sweat from her brow. The Doctor had visited earlier that day, after he was forced to shut the shop and call off his meeting with Mr Maurice when she went downhill fast. His words were grim. Whether she lasted the fever or not, she would not be long for the world. He ought to start making preparations now. 

What he wasn’t expecting was the smashing of glass below, followed by a crash. Glancing between his mother, sleeping fitfully through the fever, and the stairs. Taking up the shotgun, he decided he could spare a moment for the thief. 

Unfortunately, it was far from a thief. 

He was surprised by soft sobbing and muttered expletives coming from the shop. Someone was bent over, carefully picking up the broken glass with bloody fingers, crying to themselves as quietly as they could. Alastor still kept the rifle loaded, patient, until a distant car rounded a corner, briefly lighting up the silhouette. He blinked in surprise. 

“Roxanne?” She gave a soft shriek of surprise, dropping the glass and whipping round to stare at him in terror. They stood that way a moment, staring at each other in silence. Slowly, he lowered the gun, taking in her ripped dress, bruised cheek and bloody arms. 

“I knocked,” she gasped, almost defensively. “N-no one answered. I only meant to knock on the windows, but someone passed and I thought-” She cut herself off, shuddering, wrapping her arms around herself. “I’m sorry, I’ll pay for the window.” 

“Forget the window,” he said, moving closer slowly. “Who did this to you?” He gently touched her cheek and she flinched. It was almost like looking in a mirror. 

“No one. It doesn’t matter. I shouldn’t have come.” It was possibly the most honest she had ever been with him, despite still lying through her teeth. He caught her wrist gently, preventing her from leaving. 

“Come upstairs,” he said. “I’ll worry about the window.” He led her gently, the way his own mother had once done, into the small flat above the shop he shared with Evelyn. He collected his supplies, kept well stocked in the case of an emergency. Roxanne glanced around in unabashed curiosity. 

“You’ve never let me up here before,” she noted, as if this were a normal day. It helped sometimes, to block things out. They were experts between them at this point. 

“You were never injured before,” he said lightly, taking her arm in a soft but firm hold. “Hold still, this may sting.” She hissed as he started removing the glass, pretending to not be crying.” 

“I heard your mother was sick,” she hiccupped, looking anywhere but at the blood. She was oddly squeamish about fluids coming from herself but not others. “I was going to come by anyway.” 

“I’m sure you were.” He dabbed away the fresh blood welling from the cuts. “A fever for now. But the Doctor doesn’t think she’ll see the end of the year.” 

“She...” Roxanne trailed off, biting her lip. “I’m sorry.” She wiped a hand across her face, dragging fresh blood across it. 

“It’s not your fault. If it is Damballah’s will, then so it will be,” he murmured, shrugging. Pale shaking fingers parted his hair, falling in front on his eyes. 

“Alastor, you don’t have to hide your pain from me,” she said quietly. “I’ll be sad too, when she goes. This place... this place is safe.” She swallowed heavily, shaking. “I don’t want to go home.” The admission was different than last time. There was no whining, no coercing. No stubborn resistance. Just a quiet admission, small and defeated at the knowledge that she couldn’t escape this time. 

“Roxanne... Did your Pa do this?” he asked, pausing in preparing the needle and thread. She said nothing, looking away. “Roxanne...” 

“I didn’t want to,” she sobbed suddenly. “Mama’s gone away for a while. Said she needed some time with the nuns in Alabama. She won’t divorce him, the Bible is against it, but I think she’s hoping he’ll die before she comes back.” 

“Did she say how long she’ll be away?” he asked. 

“No.” It was short, sharp, laced with bitterness and betrayal. “I’m surprised she didn’t go further away.” There was a short moment of silence. 

“I need to stitch the wounds,” Alastor said, taking her wrists once more. “This will hurt. Do you need something to bite?” She swallowed and shook her head. He handed her the old scrap of cloth she had given him to use anyway. 

It muffled her screams well enough, the closer to the bone some of them were. 

He left her to sleep on the couch, arms and fingers bandaged and checked his mother once more. Her breath seemed to be coming easier, her sleep sounder. He nodded, taking up the shotgun once more, stepping over broken glass in overcoat and hat, into the night. 

He returned the next morning with enough meat to last them a while. Gator, deer, even some shellfish he had found. The pork was not the best, so he decided he would spare his mother the taste. People left him alone, the bloody knapsack, clothes and gun hung loosely over his shoulder in the early morning light, clearing a path for him all the way back to the shop. 

In the night, he could almost imagine he was hunting his own father or perhaps George Humphries once again. 

**(HEAVILY IMPLIED RAPE END)**

* * *

Margaret Spencer did not return to New Orleans for months. There was no one to lead poor Roxanne up the aisle, so Albert Maurice had stepped in, the man who had become the default benefactor to their union. Roxanne wore her mother’s old wedding dress, cut loosely around her figure, demure and modest, but glowing with smiles as they said their vows in the small church run by Vicar Eldman. The old man had squinted at them both before agreeing to conduct the service. 

Jessica Maurice sobbed throughout the day, swinging between congratulating them and furiously raging at the flowers in the garden. Evelyn LeRoux had smiled from her chair, pride shining through on her withered and sickly pale face. 

“Such adorable childhood sweethearts,” she had commented. “I knew the moment you got this little favour,” she continued, touching the bright red bow tie Roxanne had turned it into. “I’m so proud of you _mon fils_.” 

“Thank you, Ma,” he murmured. She had blessed the pair the night before. 

Roxanne had always dreamed of a small ceremony, contrary to her mother’s plans for a more lavish event. Her step-father was unable to conduct the wedding in accordance with the fact that he had left town abruptly, whisperings of his misdeeds over the years sweeping the town. No one knew where he had gone, and not many were out looking for him. 

They would never find him either. 

Alastor carried his new bride over the threshold of their new home. In the past month, she had since had the large house sold and they had bought a much smaller abode in the French Quarter, a nice distance between the Club and shop, moving in Evelyn as well, making her as comfortable as possible. This night she would be spending it with the Maurices so that the newlyweds could spend their first night together in peace. 

“So much for nothing getting you to marry me,” Roxanne whispered into his shoulder later that night. He shuddered at the feeling of her breath skittering across his skin. 

“What would be more humiliating for your mother? A Creole son-in-law or child born out of wedlock?” Roxanne huffed, rolling over, away from him. 

“How’d you know?” 

“How do you think?” he asked, casually leaning against one arm. “He squealed like a pig all night.” Shiny dark eyes blinked in the moonlight; the strap of her nightdress bleached of all colour. 

“Where did you bury the body?” she asked, morbidly curious. 

“Same place I buried what was left of Pa,” he said staunchly. “Away from Anne-Marie.” 

“Who?” She pushed herself up, head cocked to the side. “Someone I ought to be jealous of?” 

“If you wish to be jealous of the dead, go ahead,” he offered, thinking back to sad eyes and bruised lips. The small body he and his mother had held vigil over. Roxanne was silent. 

“Your Pa... he was like Papa?” 

“Yes.” 

“And Anne-Marie?” 

“Wasn’t like you. She did run away, for all the good it did her.” There was silence a moment. 

“Could I meet her?” she asked, oddly sincere. 

“Whatever for?” He looked at her in surprise. This would be their life forever, with nothing but clothes and sheets separating them. It was too close for comfort. She shrugged. 

“I suppose I owe her thanks. We’d never be married if not for her.” His hands were at her throat before he realised what was happening. For a moment, he was ten years old again, hearing screams in the bayou, the gun loose in fingers slick with mud and blood. 

“Never, ever, speak of my sister again,” he hissed, giving her a feral look in the moonlight. “I never want to hear her name dripping from your poisonous lips ever again.” Her eyes were wide in fright, for perhaps the first time ever. It quickly relaxed into a smile. 

“Whatever my dearest husband desires,” she whispered, huskily. He withdrew, disgusted. She flopped over him once more and he shoved her off. She didn’t take the hint. 

“They’ll want proof,” she murmured, kissing his shoulder, tugging at the neck of his nightshirt. “Especially Mama’s friends. No one will believe it otherwise.” 

“I’ve already thought of that,” he muttered back, moving away. He’d rather fall out of the bed than go through with... _that_. 

“That being?” She flinched away from the knife. He rolled his eyes. 

“Get up.” She watched the new cut on his thigh drip onto the sheets where she had laid. Eventually they agreed it was enough and he went to clean up in their small bathroom. She was lying back under the sheets when he returned. 

They waited another two months to make the announcement. Long enough, that no one would be too suspicious. If the Doctor raised a suspicious eyebrow, that was his problem. 

* * *

Margaret Spencer returned to town with a scream. She descended on their small house, six months after the wedding, ready to rain fire and brimstone upon him. Unfortunately for her, Alastor was not home, having been summoned by Albert Maurice. The man had been walking him home, explaining the last small important pieces of information to him. 

“There’s nothing to it, really. And I know you’ll be wanting the extra money with the little one on the way,” Albert was saying, clapping him on the back good-naturedly. “My Jessie’s been talking about nothing else, she’s so excited to meet them.” They were interrupted by the screaming. 

For a woman who had been living with nuns for six months, she did not look any more devout. Despite the cross hung around her neck, Margaret Spencer had the frail form of Evelyn LeRoux held by the collar of her nightgown, shawl trailing on the floor revealing the woman’s skeletal form. Her cane had been discarded across the porch, where Roxanne, seven months pregnant and two weeks past her seventeenth birthday, was pleading with the woman. 

“Please, Mama!” she practically sobbed, “Please put Ms Evelyn down! She isn’t well!” 

“To think, of all the love I devoted to you!” Margaret shrieked. “That you would throw your lot in with the likes of _this_ !” She spat on the porch step, horrified faces watching from every window. “I will not stand for it! You will not bear the spawn of these Satan worshippers and you will come home with me, _right now_!” Albert Maurice was silent, struck dumb from the woman’s vitriol. Alastor stepped forward as she shook his mother roughly, seething. 

“If you would be so kind Ma’am, as to unhand my mother,” he growled. Unknown to Margaret, he kept a knife hidden about his person for occasions just like this. She wouldn’t be the first to target him for marrying the beloved pastor’s daughter, and she wouldn’t be the last. “I’m sure you would not like to be held responsible by your God for an innocent woman’s death.” Evelyn was shaking, coughing through bloodied lips in the chill February air. Margaret glared at him with narrowed eyes. 

“Of course, it would be you,” she hissed. “Our personal Lucifer, whispering evils into my precious baby’s ears! But no more!” She threw Evelyn towards him. She no longer strong enough to stand upright unaided and collapsed. Alastor leapt forwards, catching her before she hit the ground. Roxanne shrieked from the porch as Margaret marched up and roughly grabbed her by the arm. “Now, come, Roxanne! There will be no more of this! We will get you help, rid you of this sinful marriage and that cursed child-” She was cut off by Albert Maurice, who separated them as gently as he could, eyes hard. 

“I believe that is enough Mrs Spencer,” he said gravely. “I believe that you are currently trespassing on private property and should you not remove yourself at once I’ll be forced to call the copper.” Margaret stared at him in wide eyed disbelief. 

“Mr Maurice, surely you do not agree with this... this... union!” she stuttered, unable to bring herself to such expletives to a respected man of the Church. Albert Maurice stared her down. 

“You have come in and upset the home of one of my employees. I am duty bound to protect them both, even your own daughter, from you should you wish them both harm,” Albert stated calmly. “No matter the household’s religious leanings.” There was a pause as both businessman and widow stared at each other. 

“I will never forget this,” she hissed, crossing herself as she passed him. Alastor watched her with a pleasant smile, eyes narrowed. “I will free my daughter of your clutches, demon. I swear to you, not even in death will you escape my wrath.” Albert Maurice took her by the arm more forcefully. 

“Come, Mrs Spencer. That is _enough_.” He gave Alastor an apologetic look as they left, Margaret spitting excuses to him. Albert continued to drag her away, offering her home and board while she found a new home. Alastor considered offering her the small flat above the shop. 

The thought made him smile more. 

* * *

Alastor blinked at the small wriggling form that was abruptly dropped into his arms the moment the Doctor left. It squealed at the rough treatment, alarmed and frightened in this strange new world it found itself in. 

“Shut it up, will you,” Roxanne sighed, flopping over away from them both. “It’s loud.” Alastor frowned, standing and moving away. It had been a long day for her, most likely it was tiredness and the fright of a new mother. No matter where the child had come from, it was still _her_ child. 

“Let’s find you something to eat, hmm?” he murmured to the tiny baby. It screwed its little face up, staring at him in some confusion with the pastor’s eyes. 

She quietened at the warm goat’s milk. Roxanne claimed that she could not produce food for the child, such a shame, and their neighbour had been more than happy to provide sustenance from a friend of theirs who owned a farm on the outskirts of New Orleans. Large brown eyes stared up at him relaxing slowly. Alastor stared right back, rocking her gently. 

It reminded him of the night he had been handed Anne-Marie. His father was gone, off drinking at some parlour or another, his mother groaning on the bed. The midwives and doctor had forgotten he was there, easily lost in the chaos of the room at three years of age. Someone had taken the screaming form and plopped it into his arms, bloody and devoid of blankets wiggling around so much he almost dropped it. Tiny fists bashed his chest, as if trying to remind the world she was there. Alastor had never been so fascinated in his life. He’s watched her quietly, no longer worried by the harried movements around him. When it got quiet he had stood, toddled forwards toward the bed, and nudged the hanging arm closest to the floor. His mother had blinked at him, pale. 

“Alastor?” she had croaked, weak from the birth. “Wha’?” A midwife had screeched, whisking the now quiet babe from his arms. He had blinked, feeling oddly empty. 

“Wha’s her name?” He had stumbled through the words through missing teeth. His mother had smiled, looking like the sun peeking over the horizon. The midwife had skirted around him, giving him as wide a berth as possible. She tried to hand the baby, now swaddled in blankets to his mother. The woman waved her away, gesturing for Al to climb up on the bed. He had hauled himself up, only too happy to take her back. 

“You take good care of Anne-Marie, Al,” his mother had whispered, stroking gentle hands through his hair. “I might not be able to, for a while.” 

That had been the start of her ill health, never recovering. 

Alastor stared down at this new babe, happily sucking up milk as her first ever meal. 

“I believe you need a name,” he mused out loud, humming ‘Don’t scare me Papa’ under his breath as brown eyes started drooping, just as exhausted by the birth as her mother. “How about... Anna.” Roxanne couldn’t argue, with the way she had thrown her away the first possible moment she could. 

Anna warbled something in baby language, clutching his pinky finger in her tiny fist. He sighed, watching. 

“You shouldn’t ever feel this safe with me, darling,” he murmured as her eyes finally slipped closed, an exhalation of air from the stomach rubs. “But I suppose, you could do worse.” 

If only he knew. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this chapter decided to get too long and so there is now going to be a fourth chapter to tie up this long, sad, horrifying tale of Alastor and Roxanne LeRoux. It gets worse, not sure it gets better but we are talking about the life of a serial killer in segregated America and we are only just getting into Prohibition. Buckle up, it's going to be a wild ride.
> 
> Anyone else needed Albert to be nice in this? No? Just me? Well, I needed some form of sunshine that wasn't these messed up individuals. Pray for Albert and Anna.
> 
> Warning for next chapter: there will be infant death. This will be marked out, once again, so that you can skip should you so wish. Further warnings will be in the author's note at the beginning.
> 
> Thank you to everyone for your support as we continue down this very rough road of the proposed life of Alastor, the Radio Demon.


	3. The Aberforths

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter contains the death of an infant, discussion of infanticide, referenced incestuous rape, referenced (and at one point mentioned) domestic violence, referenced cannibalism and death of a main character. If any of this may trigger you, please do not read.
> 
> Side warning: Much of this chapter revolves around Alastor trying to figure out feelings.
> 
> Worst sections are indicated.

Jessica Maurice married veteran Warren Aberforth on the 3rd June 1920. Warren no longer shook from shell shock, although he did still hold a distaste for loud noises and flinched heavily when Anna screamed midway through the service for food. Alastor removed himself from the Church to feed her. A shame, it was always entertaining to wind the man up. 

Roxanne followed the couple, looking pretty in the simple dress her friend had supplied, insisting that she be a Maid of Honour since she could no longer be a bridesmaid as a married woman. Roxanne had taken the garment, made a face behind Jessie’s back and accepted with a joyful smile. It wasn’t every day that your best friend got swept up in a whirlwind marriage. Alastor had volunteered to look after the baby, as if it were not something he did every day. 

Roxanne refused to hold the girl, hardly caring that he had named her. She had asked him not to get attached. He warned her of the consequences of raising a hand to the babe. Albert Maurice had thrown a large christening for them, quietly insisting that it would sate Margaret’s hatred. Alastor had swallowed his disgust as he handed her over to the woman, who cooed at the girl, ignoring him. Anna had promptly thrown up over the woman and screamed until returned to her mother’s arms. No one seemed to notice the strained smile on Roxanne’s face, nor the way she held the babe stiffly, as if unused to such action. 

Evelyn loved the child as much as she had her own daughter. She had spent hours of bedrest knitting little dresses and socks for the girl. Alastor would bring her more supplies on his way home from work, now announcing the different shows as well as playing sets, while Roxanne ran the shop, leaving Anna in the care of Evelyn and her nurse. Albert had seen an uptick in visitors and introduced him promptly to a dear friend of his who ran the local radio station. It was agreed that if Alastor could practice a more Trans-Atlantic tone, ridding himself of his native Orlinean twang, then perhaps in the new year they might have a spot for him. Alastor seethed, but dutifully did so, using his nights at the Jazz Club to practice it. 

Apparently, no one wanted to know that the person they were listening to was not white. He gritted his teeth behind his smile. 

Anna let out a quiet burp, pleased with herself. She was reaching for his hair and he gently pulled chubby fists away from his face. She had a tendency to yank on it rather hard. 

“All better?” he asked, humming. Anna warbled something giving a little frown. She was not a fan of the Trans-Atlantic accent it seemed, but he had little choice. If he wanted to move up in the world, he had to rid himself of all that he was, of everything he came from. It made him sick to his stomach. “I know, it’s not very good at the moment,” he murmured, reverting back just for her. “You didn’t like old Vicar Eldman either, did you?” The man had moved from New York and took a little time to understand what even Roxanne was saying, let alone those who had a thicker accent. They had both grown up in New Orleans, playing in the bayou when no one looked. It was only natural that they would sound from where they came, but apparently that was unacceptable on the radio. 

The bells rang, startling Anna into frightened whimpers. She clutched the red bow tie and he sighed, rubbing her back. “There, there, nothing to be frightened of,” he hummed, swaying. He was quietly humming jazz, imagining a whole band playing the tune, swinging little Anna around when she was older in the club. It was nice, simplistic, a world away from his own childhood. 

It was a vision he knew would never come true. 

Out of the Church came bride and groom, followed by Roxanne and another girl by the name of Charlotte, the only official bridesmaid. Jessie’s youngest sister, Emily, was flower-girl and eagerly skipped over to him to greet little Anna once again, as if this were a new experience. She had run over the moment they entered the Church that morning _and_ got waylaid up the aisle, just to greet the baby. 

“Hallo, Mr Alastor!” she greeted him, standing on tiptoes to try and get a better look at Anna. He knelt so that the two girls could say hello, although Anna’s only contribution was to grab a stray flower from the basket, cooing. Emily giggled. 

“Hello, Emily,” he answered with a grin. “Anna’s missed you I’m sure.” 

“Why do you speak with the funny accent all the time?” she asked, scrunching up her nose. “I like your New Orleans one.” 

“Trick of the trade my dear,” he said with a cough and a grimace. “Can be hard to get out of and your father’s patrons much prefer it.” Preferred the Creole man to speak ‘properly’ rather than anything else. Emily blinked, shrugged, and went back to playing with the baby. 

Roxanne did not glance over once. 

* * *

A week after Jessie’s marriage, Alastor returned home to find the Doctor on his porch. Roxanne was uncharacteristically holding Anna, face a cross between sad and terrified. It could only mean one thing. 

“I’m very sorry, Mr LeRoux,” the Doctor said gravely. “There is nothing else I can do.” 

Alastor didn’t pause, simply brushed past him. 

Evelyn had survived longer than the Doctor had given her, but not by much. Anna’s presence had given her strength, a light that had died with Anne-Marie. Alastor knew that feeling, had thought it long since lost. Whether Roxanne accepted the child or not, that was her decision, but she had saved something Alastor thought long dead and buried. Perhaps, just perhaps, he might be inclined to keep this quiet streak up post Evelyn, with little Anna in his life. 

She was barely awake, body wracked with fever and trembling in the dark. A cold cloth had been placed on her forehead, for all the good it would do her. Her eyes rolled restlessly in her head, but they managed to focus on his face when he entered. The stench of death was one he was familiar with. 

“Al? Little Al? Is that you?” she croaked. He approached quietly, nodding. 

“Yes, Ma,” he murmured, abandoning the stupid accent from the club. “I’m here.” She smiled. 

“You did... you did a good job... with little Anna,” she coughed. Alastor smiled, not correcting her at this hour. “I know... you’ll look after her... like you did our Anna...” She was fading fast. He clutched her hand, swallowing. He would not let her see him cry in her final moments. She would go with a smile on both their lips. 

“Of course, Ma,” he whispered, kissing her burning forehead. Evelyn gave him a blood-tinged smile. 

“She’s proud of you... too, you know.” Alastor took in a sharp breath. “She wanted me to tell you... thank you.” He stared, as Evelyn smiled. “Thank you... for taking care of _him_.” 

“You...?” For a brief moment, for the first time in his life, he was at a loss for words. “You knew?” 

“You’ve always protected this family,” Evelyn murmured. “Thank you... for sparing us that... in the end. Will you... spare Roxanne too?” Alastor bowed his head, smiling. 

“Of course,” he lied, as she took her last breath. He watched her chest rise and fall for the last time, letting the tears fall once her eyes slipped closed. 

_Oh, mother,_ he thought, as he kissed her goodbye. _I’m afraid it’s too late for the likes of me and Roxanne. But, Anna... I will spare her._

* * *

They held the funeral as it should be. Loud festivities and music played up and down the streets of New Orleans, as the city bid farewell to one it’s last Voodoo Queens. Voodoo was disappearing fast, losing out to charlatans and the numerous segregation laws, the disapprovement of the ‘good Christian’ Church-goers forcing many a practitioner of voodoo to head underground. Alastor would not allow that to happen to his mother. 

Anna loved it. She grasped at the streamers, playing with any beads that came her way, safe in his arms. He refused to allow her out of his sight and Roxanne let him, playing the mourning wife to any who gave them odd looks. Some thought it odd he would cling to his daughter, not his wife, but she waved off the concerns. “Everyone mourns differently,” Roxanne sniffed through a handkerchief to Warren. “Anna reminds him so much of her, it would be cruel to take that away.” 

“He ought to pay attention to the woman he married,” Warren grumbled. “Stupid bluenosed...” He muttered the last part, but Alastor heard the slur either way. Anna squeaked at the tightening hold. He carefully constructed his face into the easy practised smile. 

“No, do please continue, Warren,” Alastor said calmly, bouncing Anna up and down gently. She settled easily. “I would dearly _love_ to hear what you think.” The man scowled at him. 

“Oh, Warren, that’s enough,” Jessie simpered in that insipid way of hers. “We’re so very sorry for your loss, Al.” He highly doubted that was how the town felt about it, but he gave her a nod either way. No need to antagonise the appetiser for later. 

Albert tracked him down later, the only one to look genuinely sorry for him. He offered him a glass of whisky, watching as Alastor, still dressed for the funeral, rocked in place, lulling Anna to sleep in one arm, glass in the other. 

“Your mother was a wonderful woman,” he murmured, head bowed. “Such a shame, the life she had to live. She deserved better... you both did.” Alastor sipped from the glass humming. 

“It was peaceful, in the end,” he said in way of a reply. “She didn’t suffer. I don’t think she was all too aware of what was happening.” Albert nodded. 

“I hear you had her buried with little Anne-Marie,” Albert commented. “It’s good, that that little girl will have company now.” Alastor felt his mouth twitch towards a frown. 

“Anne-Marie should have been with us now.” Albert blinked, surprised. 

“I thought... The accident that killed your father...?” Alastor did scowl that time. It was the long believed story that Jean-Claude LeRoux had been attacked by an alligator and drowned in the bayou, sacrificing himself for his children. The truth was far more terrible, and Alastor still bore the scars of that long, dark fight, the bayou echoing to a girl’s dying screams. She had bled out in the end, just as he had dragged them both to their front door. 

“He died. Let’s leave it at that,” Alastor said flatly, glancing down towards Anna. Albert followed his gaze, observing the now three-month-old baby. 

“I see.” There was a long moment of silence. “What will you do about the shop?” Alastor shrugged. 

“I’ve already spoken with Helene. She’s agreed to take over the place, rent it out from us. It’ll help our finances.” Albert nodded, knocking back the rest of his glass and pouring another. 

“I have some good news for you as well. Jonathan finally returned my telegram- you have the job, if you still want it. Radio host first thing in the morning, just giving out the news, things like that. People are listening to more jazz and dance music now, the old classics just aren’t doing it for New Orleans anymore. Said he needed a local touch.” Alastor blinked and then smiled. 

“Thank you, Mr Maurice,” he said sincerely. “You’ve been...” He couldn’t articulate it. Albert gave him a smile and a firm clap on the shoulder. 

“No need. You’ve done my little club a world of good, heck the _world_ a load of good during the war. You focus on raising this little one now and any others in the future,” he said, tickling the now snoozing girl. She gave a bubble of laughter in her sleep. “And Alastor, I believe we’ve known each other long enough for you to call me Albert.” 

With that they parted ways. 

* * *

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen! I hope you are all doing s'well on this fine Monday morning, although I am afraid I must give you some grave news. It seems on Saturday morning the body of poor Warren Aberforth was found in the bayou. The police suspect a suicide, although evidence has been hard to collect due to animal mauling the body during the night...” 

The news went like this every morning, usually without murder. Alastor rather enjoyed his new role. Three months of hosting the radio, first for an hour, then two, moving slowly up the ranks. Usually the news he was given was small, inconsequential, deaths, marriages, births, that sort of thing. This was his first main broadcast, and wasn’t it a juicy one. 

Anna was able to crawl about now, having sussed out rolling over rather quickly in an attempt to follow them. Roxanne had startled to find her underfoot in the kitchen one day, almost dropping a knife on her tiny head. Alastor had scooped her up out of the way before any real damage could occur, dropping her back into her crib with her toys as they finished dinner. The extra income from renting out the shop and his higher salary ensured that they were able to afford the new radio on the side, which Roxanne listened to religiously whenever he was on, and a new refrigerator to keep their meat longer, which beat the cool box they had been keeping for years. 

Evelyn’s room had slowly morphed into Anna’s. The main bed was kept but the crib also placed within the room, her small clothes filling the drawers. Alastor had loathed to get rid of his mother’s things, but Roxanne had insisted. They had no space to keep a dead woman’s clothes and they had little need for them anyway. Her alter stayed, since Alastor also used it for his own prayers (when he remembered to give an offering), as did the small photograph of the woman on the dresser. Evelyn had not owned much in the way of knick-knacks, so what she did have had little sentimental value. 

They had not had much throughout his life. 

Alastor had placed the lock of his mother’s hair in a safe box along with the small cutting of Anne-Marie's, as red as his own. This he placed under the floorboards, away from Roxanne and anything she could do to sabotage it. Since Evelyn’s death, she had wanted to visit his sister’s grave. Alastor refused, claiming to be too busy with the baby and his work. Roxanne fumed quietly, getting more wound up the more the time had passed. 

It had culminated in Warren Aberforth’s far more regular visits. Alastor hadn’t cared, not even when the man brazenly walked out of their bedroom, stark naked, to find him nursing Anna with a bottle. Their eyes had met, Warren’s startled, Alastor’s a placid smile. 

“Enjoy yourself?” he had asked lightly. The man, for all his bluster, flushed bright red. Anna burped her gratitude for the meal into the silence, prompting the man to scuttle right back into the room. “There’s a good girl,” he had cooed, tickling her stomach. Anna shrieked with laughter and he heard something crash to the floor. Roxanne had emerged, dress impeccable as if it hadn’t been thrown on the floor of the kitchen and he hadn’t thrown it back into the bedroom and shut the door on his way past, heading to the screaming Anna after his shift at the radio station. 

“I see you went hunting at the weekend,” Roxanne said from the kitchen the moment he walked in through the front door. 

“Mm,” he hummed, heading straight for Anna. The cleaver smacked through the meat with a little more force than necessary. 

“Are you certain she can’t handle meat? I’m making your favourite,” she said, frowning. Alastor tickled their daughter, shaking his head. 

“No, pureed vegetables or rice only. You heard the midwife, meat wouldn’t be good for her right now. She’s still too little.” 

“She’s been teething,” Roxanne stated. “She was screaming all day.” 

“She has toys to help with that,” he pointed out, noting that none of them were around. Roxanne huffed. 

“And how am I supposed to know where you keep them?” she snapped. 

“Away from where you have your trysts?” he suggested, raising an eyebrow. A chubby fist caught red curls and he grimaced as Anna tugged hard. “Now, now, _ma_ _cherie_ , you know that hurts,” he cooed, even though he knew perfectly well she didn’t. Hair pulling was a funny game to her and he didn’t really do much to dissuade her from it. Roxanne never caught on when she had to handle the rambunctious little girl. 

“Well, you can sort her out now that you’re home,” she spat. “She needs her nappy changed before I set the table.” Alastor rolled his eyes but dutifully took Anna into her bedroom either way. She didn’t really, but it was as good an excuse as any to leave Roxanne to seethe away in the kitchen. 

* * *

**(DISCUSSION OF INFANTICIDE/INCESTUOUS RAPE)**

They ate dinner in relative silence, broken only by Anna playing with delighted abandon with the food. Roxanne was right, two small teeth were already poking through her gums, no doubt causing an immense amount of pain. She sobbed if he tried to feed her with the spoon, so he dabbed her gums with whisky before bed. It helped with the pain, a common tactic he had seen his mother use with Anne-Marie and passed on by Albert one evening in the jazz club. 

“You know you didn’t have to kill Warren,” Roxanne sniffed later that night as they got ready for bed. Alastor only clicked off the bedside lamp. “He was just... a release.” 

“You knew what you were signing up for, just as I did. I didn’t kill him for petty jealousy,” he pointed out. He could feel the eye roll. 

“Oh, I know that. Jessie was beside herself when she heard. Spent all morning in the kitchen sobbing, doesn’t know just what to do with herself. Rather funny isn’t it, that her little prophecy never came true.” 

“Technically it did,” he said, rolling onto his side so she couldn’t try to climb over him as usual. This was also good for when Anna needed feeding in the night, although that very rarely happened nowadays. “She was so excited that Anna would have a playmate soon enough.” 

“Not anymore. She spent so much time over the last few days worrying, she miscarried. I had to listen all about _that_ too.” He scowled. 

“You could at least try to sound sympathetic,” he spat, disgusted by her offhand tone. “Be glad she came over despite the reminder you still have a child while she doesn’t.” 

“A child you care more about than you do me,” Roxanne huffed. He raised an eyebrow, rolling over to look at her. She was glaring at the ceiling, fingers twitching at the blanket. 

“You’re jealous of _Anna_?” he asked in disbelief, laughing. “You, who spend half your time with whatever man you can find rather than your husband, are jealous of a _baby_?” It was just ludicrous enough to be the truth. Roxanne, for probably the first time in their marriage, rolled away from him. 

“You should have given her away the moment she was born. I told you not to get attached.” He let silence reign in the house a while. 

“We talked about this,” he said eventually. “You got what you wanted. A life free of your mother, of your step-father, away from the rules and expectations of the life they wanted you to live. All you had to do was leave Anna to me. The way we were six months ago, when we had no idea when the next meal would be, you had little regard for this. Now-” 

“It’s different now,” she snapped. “The older she gets, and all I can see is _him_.” She shuddered. “It’s the eyes, they watch you. Sometimes I wonder...” 

“She’s barely six months old. If her eyes worry you that much, don’t look. You’re her _mother_. Of course she’s going to be watching you.” 

“Well I don’t want her to!” Roxanne shouted, pushing herself up suddenly. Her eyes were wide and wild, old fright long buried surfacing once again. “I want her _gone_ , I can’t... I can’t _stand_ her Al. She’s a reminder of everything I ran away from.” He just stared right back at her. 

“And how would you explain it?” he asked quietly. “We have the funds, we have no reason to give her away, and you were the one who wanted to keep up the pretence. You built this façade yourself. Do not blame me.” She swallowed in the moonlight. 

“You could make it look like an accident,” she whispered. He smacked her for that. 

“No.” There were things even he refused to do, an odd moral for someone who enjoyed hunting humans in the bayou. 

“Please, Al, I... I need her gone.” Roxanne was begging. Roxanne never begged. He cocked his head to the side, trying to understand. He couldn’t really, he knew that. He didn’t have the emotional capacity for something like this, never had, and even then, a part of him was intrinsically tied around that little girl’s finger. There was no easy answer to this. 

“Go see your mother,” he said quietly. She stared at him in horror. 

“No, don’t...” He held up a hand, to push back her arguments. 

“Speak to your mother. Tell her where Anna came from, truthfully. And then ask me again, if you can,” he spat, eyes narrowed. _Let her be the one to make the decision, for once_. He had solved all of her problems so far, solved Warren’s threat to expose them when she finally rebuffed him for getting boring, solved her step-father's actions and subsequent consequences. He had even solved the problem that was her mother, if in a different way. This problem, of her own creation, he _would not solve_. 

Alastor lived to regret that assertion for the rest of his life.

**(END OF DISCUSSION)**

* * *

He buried the small corpse, alone, as Roxanne was comforted in the house by a desolate Jessie. He glanced at the engravings on the tombstone. _Anne-Marie LeRoux, 1901-1908, beloved sister. Evelyn LeRoux, 1882-1920, beloved mother._ And now there would be a new one, the words written and waiting at the funeral parlour. _Anna Evelyn LeRoux, 15_ _th_ _April-23_ _rd_ _September 1920_. The obituary read cot-death. Her blue lips and frozen skin suggested something else, something no one dared speak of. Margaret had looked at the small body once, sobbed, and fled the house, giving her daughter one last glance of disgust. 

“Rest in peace, Anna,” he murmured, giving her the last of the tears and the rest of his wretched heart into the ground with her. “You deserved far better than the pair of us.” 

The news the next morning reported the death of Margaret Spencer. She had been mauled to death so brutally that it took a week to identify the body. Her daughter mourned in silence, lamenting the three swift deaths in one year she had endured in the loving arms of her husband. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I almost killed Roxanne in this chapter, then decided against it. I have plans for her and we have reached the catalyst of the downward spiral. But Alastor is now a radio host, and next chapter will be the last! All I can say is, pray for Albert, he's the last pleasant face you'll see. 
> 
> RIP Anna, my favourite character who I bawled my eyes out over after killing her off. I hate myself too, for doing it.


	4. Until Death and Beyond

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Graphic murder, domestic violence, cannibalism, character death, serial murder, mentioned infanticide and general insanity on the part of Alastor. Also racial slurs and period-typical racism.
> 
> And so we end this long, tragic tale, of Alastor and Roxanne.

Jessie Aberforth had married thrice and became a widow twice by the time she wandered into the radio studio one sunny morning in August 1926. Her last marriage had lasted three years, the most successful of them all. She carried in her little boy, kissing her new husband Jonathan Colchester, the owner of the New Orleans Radio Station and Alastor’s boss. He gave them a polite smile, reading out the last of the news. 

“Another spate of murders has occurred, ladies and gentlemen! Not since the Axeman of 1919 has the city befallen such calamity! Police urge all citizens to stay safe within their homes past the hour of nine in the evening, as they continue to hunt the killer!” This time it had been a family of three, not too far from the old voodoo shop he and his mother had run. Helene had started a saloon in the basement, which he charged extra for, the shop upstairs now selling groceries rather than voodoo wares. Or so the authorities thought. 

Jonathan gave him a nod, thumbs up as the light indicated that they were now no longer on air, changing to the announcer next door for a while. 

“Good work, once again, Alastor,” he said, patting him on the back. “Good old Albert was right about you.” Alastor merely continued to smile, nodding politely. 

“Alastor? Oh, it’s been so long! I didn’t realise you were still here! Are you still working for my Father?” Jessie asked, as if she hadn’t noticed him the moment she walked in. Her little boy attempted to toddle into the radio booth. Alastor scooped him up and around before he could- too many wires would end in a very small corpse. 

“No, Albert was unfortunately forced to close up shop after Prohibition,” he said mournfully. “I thought you knew?” Jonathan glanced between them, eyes curious. Jessie had moved briefly away from New Orleans, taken to learning business from her second husband, who had died soon after she returned to the city, the man choking to death on a peanut of all things. It wasn’t long after that she had met Jonathan, just lying in wait to be consoled. 

“Ah, well, I haven’t really seen Papa since the wedding. He’s always so busy,” she waved off the concern. “He never said with what.” Alastor shrugged, heading towards the exit. She was as dreadfully dull as always. “How is dear Roxie?” she called before he could leave. “I hear she’s still devastated.” 

“She lost her mother, her daughter and mother-in-law in a single year,” he pointed out with a raised eyebrow. “We all recover at a different rate.” Roxanne tended to mourn in the arms of another. 

“Oh, well little Christopher and I should go comfort her some time,” she simpered, hand on her chest. Little Christopher was busy trying to tug the hat stand over in the corner. Alastor righted it before giving the child a soft push back towards his mother. No need for anyone to find the knife stashed in a pocket, or the revolver he kept in a secret pocket away from Roxanne. It was bad enough she had taken to throwing knives when she felt like it- no need to give her _actual_ ammunition. 

“That sounds like a wonderful idea!” he enthused with a smile. She would love that- her old friend, turned up once more, child in tow just to show her how well her life was going now. Jessica and Roxanne had always had that kind of a relationship, usually with Roxanne coming out on top. Alastor could have laughed- she would never win against his wife, she always skewed the rules in her favour. 

“Ah, I forgot you used to work with my father-in-law,” Jonathan said as he followed Alastor towards the exit. “It seems so long ago now.” Albert had, in fact, shut the club in 1922, but Alastor had been promoted at the station and had left a year prior. They still stayed in touch, occasionally heading out to the bayou to hunt for ‘sport’. 

Albert liked to comment that he was at a disadvantage to a veteran. Alastor just smiled. 

“Six years can seem like a lifetime,” Alastor agreed. The world had changed drastically with the fall of Tsarist Russia, Americans becoming ever more concerned by the rise of communism. Why, Alastor was not quite sure. America had never had a monarchy, had thrown out the British and the rest of its colonisers over a hundred years ago. To him it seemed more like a problem for the old Empirical powers in Europe, but perhaps it had to do with the rich capitalists terrified to lose their power. 

He could have laughed, at how truly powerless they were, especially those that decided to run. Those were the best to hunt. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Jonathan said, clapping him on the back. “You be careful out there. This Red Hunter is no joke I hear.” Alastor tipped his hat, waving goodbye. 

The house was almost silent. He ignored the groans coming from Roxanne’s bedroom, electing instead to head towards the flowers they kept on the mantle piece. They had long since died and needed replacing. He eyed them, wondering if it was worth the effort, before shrugging, heading back outside. 

Helene was more than happy to sell him the pink roses, tying them in a red ribbon and handing them over. He left a small bottle of moonshine for her to place as an offering later. She thanked him, waving payment. 

Voodoo was slowly heading underground, rising suspicion from the ever-increasing population of white Protestant and Catholic worshippers moving into New Orleans. For people who had spent so long campaigning against slavery, they were oddly content with the segregation of society, choosing instead to focus on the prohibition of alcohol, as if _that_ were the true problem in America. Alastor passed a new church on his way to the family tomb, curling his lip at the new pastor preaching to his subjects the evils of alcohol. 

Two children ran into the road, ignored by their parents. He jumped in front of the approaching car, gesturing for it to stop. The man swore at him, spitting a number of curses at the colour of his skin, shouted at the children to get out of the road and swerved round them all. Alastor rolled his eyes. 

“Thank you, mister!” the little boy called, hugging the ball close. The girl hid behind Alastor’s coat, wide-eyed. 

“No trouble,” he said, smiling. “Try not to play in the road, it’s busy.” Both nodded and ran off. The small congregation at the church stared at him in disgust. He ignored them and walked on. 

He laid the roses at the tomb, eyeing the small engravings there. Roxanne never came, claiming it made her uncomfortable. Even six years later, she played the role of grieving housewife, despite having little to no care for any of them, save perhaps Evelyn. He would have refused to bring her anyway. Anne-Marie deserved better than to meet the likes of her. 

He returned to the body of Charlotte Weatherby on the floor of their living room, groaning. A knife stuck out of her abdomen. Alastor raised an eyebrow. 

“If you mean for me to clean up your mess, you are sorely mistaken,” he called to the humming form in the kitchen. Roxanne, ever dressed in black now, shrugged. 

“She’s not going anywhere,” she stated. “Jambalaya?” 

“You don’t know how to cook proper Jambalya.” 

“Well, I did my best.” She held up the spoon. “What do you think?” 

“You burnt the rice,” he commented, stepping over the form on the ground to hang up his coat. “For what reason do we have for dear Charlottle to be dead?” 

“For what reason did the Holtons deserve death?” she countered. He raised an eyebrow. 

“Arthur was being a little too noisy about your tryst.” 

“You could have left them in bayou,” she pointed out, attempting to salvage the rice. He could have told her it was hopeless. 

“And where would the fun in that be?” he asked. “Leave dinner, I’ll save it. I believe you have some housework left.” Charlotte whimpered, trying to catch his trousers with a bloody hand. He easily sidestepped the clumsy lunge, watching in some fascination as blood bubbled at the corners of her mouth. “I believe we made a rule about the house, however.” Roxanne scowled. 

“She wouldn’t leave,” she muttered, wiping her hands on the tea-towel. “Then she tried to run. I was aiming for the heart.” 

“Missed a tad.” She threw the spoon at his head and scowled harder when he ducked, and it clattered uselessly against the wall. 

“Don’t you start,” she spat. “Where did you go, anyway?” 

“Nowhere.” He took one glance at the mess she had made of dinner, and with a sigh, threw it away. What a waste of good meat. He set a fresh pot on the stove, setting to making gumbo instead, considering that Roxanne would be a while with the body, and it would require less dishes. 

He ignored the quiet snap and thuds of Roxanne cleaning up. Perhaps he _should_ have thrown the Holtons in the bayou. They were running low on meat. 

* * *

Roxanne smacked him when he walked into the house the next day. He blinked, surprised. 

“And what did I do to deserve that?” he asked, rubbing his cheek. She scowled. 

“When were you going to tell me Jessie was back in town?” she snapped, face twisted into something ugly. He cocked his head, remembering that, yes, he had in fact ‘forgotten’ to inform her. 

“My apologies. Between your little accident yesterday and dinner, it must have slipped my mind.” She squinted at him suspiciously while he just smiled innocently. Let her decide if he was telling the truth. 

“Have you seen the little gremlin she calls a child?” she asked instead, turning on her heel. The radio was still set to his frequency, playing a rather mangled jazz rendition. He wrinkled his nose at it. Kevin just did not know what the good jazz bands were. 

“Christopher isn’t it?” he asked, moving to turn the atrocity off. She hmphed. 

“Little devil more like. Ran round the whole place, screamed when I wouldn’t let him in your room and kicked Jessie until she gave him chocolate,” she scowled. “Although I did enjoy him hitting the stupid tart.” 

“I can imagine.” 

This was usual behaviour. Since Anna’s passing, they interacted more as ships in the night rather than a married couple. It was how they interacted best either way. He pretended to not know what she had done, she pretended that it really had been Margaret who had committed the act. But soon, soon he would get his revenge. 

The town still thought they shared a bed, shared a room, shared what every mourning married couple did. Little did they know of what hid in their refrigerator, that they had long since stopped the pretence behind closed doors of a happy couple. Arthur Holton had been an idiot, thinking he could reveal the truth: he had thought that Roxanne would help him, protect him, back him up. He had died with his parents, screaming, in their beds. For a moment, he had considered making it look like the Axeman had returned but he loathed for his work to be mistaken for another’s. In the early days, it was fine for it to be attributed to animals. 

Now, he would much rather they feared him. 

He spent the evening much as he did most nights. Leaving Roxanne to clear up the dishes, he left offerings for Anna, Anne-Marie, Evelyn and the other spirits surrounding them, checked his weapons and clicked off the lights. The alter held pictures of each of those he had lost, a reminder of why he made them all pay. He could hear Roxanne bustling about in her own room, the quiet sound of her voice as she spoke over the phone to Charlotte’s parents, lamenting with them her sadness that, no, she hadn’t seen the poor girl and she hoped she would be home soon. He closed his eyes, smiling. 

There was no need of the Red Hand. Not tonight. His next target would lead right to his vengeance soon. 

* * *

Jessica screamed in the night, choking on the blood pouring from her mouth. Alastor feigned alarm, running up the porch steps. There was a small mangled body which caused the door to stick. Jonathan was shouting in alarm, already running to the neighbours who were no doubt calling the coppers right now. Internally he smiled. Externally, he finally managed to shove the door open. 

Roxanne had never been particularly tidy in her murders. The mess behind the door was evidence of this. Jessica was somehow till able to scream through a throat half torn out, flopping about like a dying fish on dry land in a puddle of blood. He ignored the blood, running to her. She clutched his coat in desperation. 

“Don’t worry, Jessie,” he murmured, as if concerned. “The coppers will be here soon. You’re going to be just fine.” Lie, lie, _lie_ and it was hilarious how she fell for them all. She would be dead before the coppers even reached the house, she had lost so much blood. 

“She... She...!” Jessie couldn’t speak, the words garbled. But she was able to point. He ducked the knife sent sailing at his head. 

“Roxanne?” he asked, eyes wide. She gave a look askance, slow realisation dawning on her. He knew she would lose it like this, really. She had dug this hole for six years, unable to hold herself back in so many ways. And this was just too easy. 

“You cur,” she growled, cleaver in one hand, blood spattered over her apron. “You knew this would happen.” 

“Roxanne, put down the knife,” he said placatingly, one hand reaching for the revolver. Roxanne bared her teeth, cornered. She knew she wouldn’t escape this. She knew that this was one mistake he wouldn’t let go. Jessie slowly choked her last on the ground, her desperate grip weakening as the seconds ticked by. “We don’t need to do this.” 

“Oh, but I think we do,” she hissed. Her eyes were wide, wild. Her aim had always been slightly off. She had been lucky with Charlotte, that the girl’s vocal cords had already been cut by the first clumsy slash. Alastor had never given her tips, just continued to let her dig her own grave. 

“Hmm,” he mused, dropping the cold dead hand instantly, rising. “You’re right. There’s been something I’ve been meaning to do for six years.” The knife went wide. The shot did not. Roxanne’s eyes were wide as she fell in almost slow motion backwards, clutching the bullet would in her stomach. “You shouldn’t have killed her,” he noted, watching as she glared back at him. “I warned you not to.” 

“She... had to die. I told you...” she coughed, hand scrabbling for something else. He kicked the cleaver out of her reach, shooting again, this time into her lungs. 

“No, Anna did not.” They were interrupted by Jonathan and the coppers. Alastor feigned shakes, setting his features into wide eyed shock. 

“Al...” Jonathan trailed off in shock. One of the coppers, a newbie from the way he gagged, ducked right back out of the house. “Dear God...!” 

“I... I didn’t know...” he stammered, dropping the revolver. “I... she came for me...” 

“It’ll be alright, son,” one of the coppers said, the eldest of them. Most likely the Lieutenant, if he read the badge right. He took Alastor by the shoulders, steering him out of the house. “We didn’t think it would be a dame either.” His neighbours were watching through their curtains, some covering their children’s eyes at the sight of the blood on his coat. “You won’t suffer any repercussions. It was clearly self-defence.” 

“She was my wife,” he murmured, pulling on Warren Aberforth and his wide eyed shock in the hospital all those years ago. “She... I loved her... I didn’t think....” 

The copper said nothing else, merely lead him into the old rocking chair on the porch. Jonathan followed them out, face sickly pale. He slowly sank onto the porch steps, cradling the small form of Christopher Colchester to his chest. 

Internally, Alastor laughed. This was the most entertained he had been in a long time. 

* * *

Roxanne LeRoux was buried in an unmarked grave, the papers screaming about the ‘Red Huntress’ having finally been found. Alastor joined Albert in the old church to lend a shoulder to the grieving father. Emily sobbed throughout the service, while Jonathan stood stock still, barely breathing. _Shock still hasn’t worn off_ , people whispered. _He’s been a widower twice now. Who would have guessed...?_ Occasionally, they would glance towards him, eyes wary. He kept his features blank, having forgone sleep the night before the feign tired, sleep-deprived eyes. 

Albert pulled him in for a rough embrace when the service ended. 

“Stay the night, Alastor,” he said in a voice made rough by tears. “You shouldn’t have to be alone at a time like this.” Alastor tried to refuse, slightly alarmed by the man’s odd behaviour. His daughter had been murdered, and he was trying to comfort _him_? What on earth was this? Albert refused to take no as an answer. “Could never have known that Roxanne was... well, best not to think about it. I don’t feel comfortable, leaving you to dwell on that, all alone in that house.” 

“I wouldn’t want to be a bother...” Alastor murmured, confused by this turn of events. Alastor gripped his shoulder hard. 

“Alastor, you’ve been like a son to me all these years. I’ve watched you grow up, I’ve watched you be a father, a husband and an orphan.” He paused, watching Alastor stare at him in genuine confusion. “I know you didn’t have the best childhood, that we don’t talk about your father. And you don’t have to see me the same way. I just want what’s best for you.” Alastor felt the odd urge to laugh hysterically. _Poor Albert. He doesn’t know what he’s asking. Doesn’t even know who he’s talking to_. 

Something almost like regret sparked in his chest. He squashed it ruthlessly. 

“Perhaps just... one night,” he conceded. This man would be the death of him, truly. 

“One night is all I ask,” Albert said with a small, sad smile. “If you want to stay longer, that will be fine too.” 

* * *

Death was a strange concept to Alastor. Limping along through the reeds of the bayou, cursing his sloppiness and hiding in the shallows to prevent the dogs from finding him, gave him plenty of time to consider it. Starting up again a year later, was more difficult than he had first thought. Damn Albert Maurice and his bleeding heart. It was like having his mother back for a while, a steadying hand, a place to go when things got... not overwhleming, but _difficult_. If Albert had known that Alastor’s heart had died years prior, he made no move to show it, not even when his son-in-law died to the renewed Red Hunter. 

Jonathan Colchester had died spitting the same old racial slurs Alastor had heard his whole life. He was rather surprised to find that Jessie had been a tempering hand, stopping the vitriol the entire time he had spent under the man. 

New Orleans was rocked once again. Their beloved radio host was a serial killer, a cannibal, a man who had tricked all those around him for years, had led their law enforcement on a merry chase in circles. Alastor had known, at some level, that he had been losing his grip on reality for years. Had lost it thirteen years prior, burying a baby in a graveyard alone. Whatever mangled remains of the thing in his chest had enough sense to let Albert Maurice go in 1930, deciding to spare the man further heartbreak. 

It had been a stupidly small thing that had gotten him caught. Because Alastor was a monster, he knew that, had known it since he was ten years old and killed his father in the bayou, but he had never been able to bring himself to harm children. He had stared blankly at the small, vaguely familiar face, the corpse of their mother beneath him, eviscerated. Logically, he should have killed the boy, the same one he had saved from being run over in the road. The memory of laughing bright eyes, and quiet babblings in the night, had stayed his hand. And the child inevitably blabbed to the police. 

He could hear faint barking surrounding him. He cursed. They had mauled him pretty badly on his escape into the bayou, had almost gotten him caught, but he had always had better aim then Roxanne. He’d heard the owner swearing over the corpse as he dived into the filthy water. Years of fishing for shrimp and crawfish had made him a strong swimmer. It had thrown them off the scent and given him enough of a reprieve to treat some of the wounds, cursing his own stupidity. 

A stick snapped in the distance. He growled at the deer that had given away his hiding place and it scuttled off into the night. 

Unfortunately, it also covered the sound of a rifle clicking behind him. 

“You could have stopped at Roxanne,” Albert Maurice sighed heavily, Alastor’s own rifle and bayonet pointed straight at his head. “You could have asked for help.” Alastor sneered right down the sight back at him. 

“There was never help for me,” he pointed out. “No one helped us that night. Not even you.” 

“I didn’t know Jean-Claude was like that,” Albert said. The man was crying silent tears, Alastor noted. He wondered why. “I should have done better by you. I know that. I know I shouldn’t have let you go all those years ago.” 

“If you’re going to do, I’d hurry up,” Alastor pointed out, giving him a wide smile. “I’d much rather the gun than a dog.” Albert eyed the wounds already leaking through the ripped cloth that currently served as bandages. His gaze rested on the ones on his neck, the ones which were already festering and would most likely be his death. 

“You don’t deserve such mercy,” Albert said, voice choked. “But I won’t see a son of mine ripped to pieces.” 

The bullet stopped any questions Alastor may have had. 

* * *

On the morning of 23rd September 1933, the papers in New Orleans proclaimed the final death of the dreaded Red Hunter. It also noted the suicide of patron Albert Maurice, the man suspected to have finally killed the monster that had posed as a hero for years. 

Emily Maurice quietly mourned both her father and a man she had seen as a brother for years. Her mother cursed the man, but still laid flowers for Evelyn, Anna and Anne-Marie. It was all they deserved after all, since they would never see Alastor again. 

Unknown to them all, a small ghostly seven-year-old skipped around a corpse in the bayou, a smile on its face. 

“Good luck, Al,” the girl whispered. “I know you’ll love it down there!” In Hell, a new demon was born, sharp smile wide, to the sounds of screams and radio static.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Give a moment of silence to Albert, who deserved better in a son-in-law. And a prayer for the denizens of Hell, who have just met their new Overlord.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this proposed backstory for the infamous Radio Demon. Most of it is probably not what Vivziepop had in mind, although I am curious to find out if Alastor's 'entertainment' is watching demons fail, or Charlie realise that she's basically opening herself up to be alone forever. Except for the worst of the demons, like Alastor because the likelihood of a psychopathic serial killer being 'redeemed' is highly unlikely along with the likes of Valentino and Vox. 
> 
> Roxanne's death scene was incredibly therapeutic to write. Albert was a tragedy.
> 
> The End.


End file.
